


red and frantic, mad gigantic

by knightcap



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Feelings, Introspection, Pre-Canon, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcap/pseuds/knightcap
Summary: Feeling everything so big is great when you're happy, and not so great when you're not, and sometimes it feels like you're just along for the ride.





	red and frantic, mad gigantic

~~~~Christine really does almost cry at the end of play rehearsal. It’s a choreography day, so the crash is even steeper than usual. For a whole two glorious hours, the world is nothing but music and motion. After enough musicals, every number starts to seem like the same pieces sewn together in a different order, and it’s only a matter of mastering the _flow_ , and Christine loses herself in it. There are even spins! Her favorite! There’s a moment in the middle, where someone takes her hand, and she gets to spin into center stage and stomp a foot down to stop herself, and _fling_ her arms out in a big, dramatic emphasis on a note belted out from the middle of her range, and everything is as yellow and warm as the hug of the spotlight on her.

And then it’s over. “It can’t be over, we just started!” She cries out, so completely earnest that it makes their volunteer choreographer snicker and shake her head in an attempt to cover the laugh she thinks Christine didn’t catch.

“Nah, we’re all out of time! Good work today. See you next week, alright?”

“And I’ll _see_ you all _tomorrow_!” Mr. Reyes chips in, standing up from where he’s been observing in the comfort of a blue chair. “I’ll post the video for practice tonight!”

  
So that is a good thing, Christine thinks, trying to comfort herself, leaving the stage a little disheveled and sweaty, collecting her script from where she carefully placed it at the beginning of practice. She likes not having to remind Mr. Reyes to post the videos from choreography days and she likes being able to practice at home, so she can be the best she can be and make rehearsal run even more smoothly. Smoothly does not include messy leads.

But it’s _over_. The yellow elation is darkening and her sky-high is crashing harder than she can express with a mere collapse into the stiff music lobby bench.

Someone offers her a ride, but Christine shakes her head hard, hair flying out every which way. She doesn’t feel like people right now. They back off, and leave. Everyone leaves, and only some of them respond to her waves goodbye.

Her parents are working. That’s why they’re not here to give her a ride. Which is fine. It’s fine! Just because it’s raining, and she can’t walk home like she usually does, like she _planned_ on, just because the yellow-hug-light-glow is being tainted with a broody, murky green, doesn’t mean she can let it ruin her whole day. She can get her homework done! In the quiet, calm, distractionless lobby.

The too-quiet, empty, disgusting lobby, it smells and so does she. Play rehearsal is over and it’s raining outside, so she really can’t be blamed for the feelings boiling over inside her and wanting to spill out her eyes, no matter how hard she flaps her hands or taps her feet or tries to push those tears back in.

“Go away. Go away!”

Oh, and there she goes. Crying in the lobby. Olive green. Olive green?

It’s just that her hair is messy, and her dress is sweaty, and she’s getting cold sitting still in the air-conditioning, and it’s hard dealing with unexpected changes in her plans because she takes comfort in having control over how her life is going to turn out, or at least what small amount you can even pretend to have in such a crazy world full of crazy people who you don’t understand and don’t understand you.

She wants to _swear_. Or run out in the rain and go all the way home. But going outside is a bad idea, there’s a small part of her that’s watching this meltdown from a logical place and that part of her knows if she follows the temptation to run outside and sprint all the way home she’ll just end up feeling even more gross and miserable. She doesn’t want that, so she just keeps sitting and feeling.

And she’s _angry_ , all of a sudden! Because she should have said yes to the ride, and the person who asked should have asked if she was _sure_ , and nobody should have laughed at her for losing track of time, because when she tells the same joke over and over, it’s not funny the fifth time, but when she’s the joke, apparently it is! And, and, and--

Christine’s wrists are getting tired from flapping so hard. She gave a few last hard wiggles before letting them flop down in her lap, and with their crash so did she. Again.

No longer yellow and no longer olive and no longer _redred **red**_. She was just…. gray.

Or maybe blue.

Or maybe it didn’t matter. Because the entire point of the colors was to try and understand the big mad feelings that swept her along like a plastic bag in a hurricane. At least when Christine comes back down she isn’t a threat to the sea turtles. She hopes.

She takes a deep breath, and counts to ten, and exhales again. It was okay. It was okay. It was okay. Calm down, Christine.

It was nice when the phrases that got stuck in her head were calming, or useful. It was okay, she repeated to herself, sometimes aloud and mostly not, enjoying the meaningless sound of the syllables while everything else about her went sleepy and tired from the wave of so many feelings all at once. So many _feelings_ all at once.

She checks the time on her phone. Four fifteen. Barely a quarter of an hour had passed, and Mom wouldn’t be here until six thirteen at best, and Dad would always be here even later.

She takes a deep breath, and counts to ten, and exhales again. It was okay was breathed out with all the carbon dioxide, and it stopped repeating in her head. Instead she digs in her backpack for her headphones and places them over her flyaway hair, and lays back until her head rested on the bag like a pillow.

She plugs the headphones into her phone and presses play on The Sound of Music soundtrack. She takes a deep breath, and counts to ten, and exhales again, and lets the dulcet tones of Julie Andrews wash over her and carry her off to sleep.

Her mom pulls up at six fifteen, and comes inside to wake her up with a few repeats of her name by six eighteen.

“You had a nap?” Mom clearly didn’t need to ask this question. Was she confused? Or amused? Ooh, or bemused and amused? That sounds better. “That’s not like you,” Mom continued. Oh, right. Right. Stay in the moment. “Did you have a good day?”

Christine yawns, and nods, placing her backpack on the floor first and climbing into the passenger seat second. “Yeah,” she confirms, almost honest. It was a good rehearsal. And her schedule was now almost back on track. If she remembered right, there was going to be spaghetti for dinner. And she had play rehearsal to look forward to again tomorrow. It was all going to be okay. “Yeah. Pretty good.” 


End file.
